Site Navigation

Site Mobile Navigation

Peking Opera Burns to Survive

Wang Jinlu is in character from the moment he opens his apartment door. "I practice every day. I walk down the stairs doing exercises. By the time I reach the streets, I am singing Peking Opera arias. People who don't know me think I am a crazy old man," he says, chuckling as he snaps open his white hand-painted fan.

At 80 he is still one of Peking Opera's leading lights. His apartment in a concrete housing complex here is decorated with enlarged photos of his performances. His most recent show was last year.

But fame came only after many years of hard training. He entered the profession by chance. Growing up motherless in a poor family, he was 10 when a neighbor noticed he could sing and brought him to a nearby Peking Opera school.

"They checked your bones, your looks and your voice," he says. His big eyes were especially attractive. "I was better looking than I am now," he says, his long white hair combed neatly back. After imitating the songs he heard the old men in the neighborhood singing, the school accepted him.

The eight years he spent in the school were far from easy, not so different from the life of the Peking Opera caricatures in Chen Kaige's award-winning film "Farewell My Concubine." Peking Opera requires formidable vocal skills, of course, but acrobatics are a major part of the 200-year-old art form that includes elaborate silk costumes and colorfully painted faces.

"It's better to start young when your bones are more flexible," says Wang, demonstrating his agility by lifting his leg to his head. To achieve perfection, the teachers often broke the rules and beat their students; they saw it as necessary, Wang says. "We were just kids and they wanted to frighten us. They would refuse to teach if they weren't allowed to hit us."

After graduating in 1939, the school asked him to stay on as a teaching assistant. He also performed every day in private theaters, earning one yuan a performance. "I was no longer a poor child and could finally earn a living," he says. Life changed slightly after the Communist victory established the People's Republic, in 1949, when performers became employees of the state and private theaters were closed. "You didn't make as much money, but you had a stable livelihood. Even if you didn't perform, you still got paid."

His popularity spread. Mao Zedong and Zhou Enlai saw him perform. But his career nearly came to an end in 1961 when he fell while practicing an acrobatic stunt. Rigorous discipline brought him back to the stage, but five years later the Cultural Revolution silenced traditional Peking Opera altogether. Instead, Mao's wife, Jiang Qing, introduced eight Yangbanxi or "model operas," which were based on socialist tenets. All other performances were banned, and for 10 years artists like Wang were out of work.

An error has occurred. Please try again later.

You are already subscribed to this email.

But the chaotic decade brought new performers to the stage. Zheng Ziru was 11 when she entered the Academy of Chinese Traditional Opera in 1972. Jiang Qing ran the school. "I was treated like a queen in my neighborhood when they announced my selection," she says. Only 62 children were chosen nationwide. They learned the traditional techniques but performed only the politically acceptable Yangbanxi. "We did revolutionary pieces on the lives of peasants, workers and soldiers."

When the Cultural Revolution ended in 1976, Zheng and her classmates revived the old repertoires and created new ones. In 1979 they established the China Experimental Company and performed across the country. "The 1980s were the return of entertainment and the performances were packed," she says. That lasted until 1985 when the company broke up. "We had lots of success during that period and were well-known. It was a mistake to stop."

But the slow-paced esoteric musical drama is facing declining audiences today, and troupes perform only about 100 of the more than 1,000 librettos. Chinese youth are more attracted to television and disco. The government also can no longer afford the costs. "In the old society there was nothing but Peking Opera and silent movies. Today, there is much more," Wang says.

Zheng went on to join the China Peking Opera Theater, and continues to join the fray about the future of the form. She meets with Wang to discuss solutions. The audiences may be declining but the art form must not be allowed to die, she says. "If China exists, Peking Opera will exist. It's like the Great Wall; it's the symbol of China." The problem, she adds, is how to reform it.

-

THEY are trying. Wang performs for children, hoping to teach them to appreciate the national treasure. Zheng and others write and perform new productions based on the ancient tales. In 1990 Beijing also sought to revitalize interest by sponsoring a 24-day opera festival that featured more than 3,000 performers. "We can't compete with rock 'n' roll but youth still comes to see us," Zheng says. "If there's a good actor, there's always a public."

Elderly performers like Wang are still popular. "When Chinese leaders hear it's an 80-year-old performing, they want to see him," Zheng says. Last year, Wang starred in the Qing dynasty opera "E Hucun." He admits he was stunned by the raucous applause. "But it was because it was you performing," Zheng laughs. Wang chuckles again and snaps open his fan. "The happiest moments are when the audience likes it," he says, working the fan.